He chewed a moment, then spat. "Tell you, though. You go by way of Agate. It's out of your way a mite, but you talk to Sourdough. It seems to me he prospected that country a few years back."
Red was coming back, walking rapidly, and Mesquite was coming from the other direction. Red was grinning. "Now what do you know?" he exclaimed. "You can sure read your sign,
Hoppy! About three months back Bolt started buyin' supplies. The stuff for his ranch always went out of here in a buckboard, but not this. He had sacks made up to tote behind his saddle, but not like a man would carry for an overnight or two-day camp. It was like he was layin' in a stock."
Mesquite nodded, his eyes bright with grim satisfaction. "That fits! About three, maybe four months ago Jack Bolt bought a hammer and some nails. Graves back there figured it was funny, because they had bought a big stock at the ranch not long before. Then he came in later and bought an axe, a shovel, and a pick. That was on the last day of March. Graves set it down in a book because he had to order some axes, that being his last one.
"Three weeks later Bolt came in and bought some hinges and a hasp, then a heavy padlock."
"He could have used all that at his ranch," Red said dubiously.
The liveryman nodded. "He could've, but I doubt it."
"I'm betting he didn't!" Mesquite replied shortly. "I'm betting Bolt played it safe. He built himself a cabin somewhere and stocked it with grub. Isn't that right, Hoppy?"
Hopalong Cassidy nodded. "Bolt is a careful operator. It was only the fact that Red stumbled on some suspicious tracks that started all this trouble. Otherwise he might have gotten away with what he was doing. I think that Bolt was playing it very safe and had another hideout located if he needed it. Something he didn't even want his own men to know about."
"Makes sense, I guess," Red agreed. "But how're we goin' to find it?"
"He'd want water," Mesquite mused, "and, unless I miss my guess, a lookout from where he could keep an eye on his
back trail. He might not care about that, but I've an idea he would."
"Water, fuel, and shelter. With the tools he got he could build a shelter, yet he would have to have a place in which to build it."
Hopalong turned to the liveryman. "About a horse, now," he suggested. "Do you remember any time when Bolt had more than one horse? Or did he buy a horse from you at any time? My idea is that he would want an extra horse up there. Maybe a couple of them."
"No." The liveryman was positive. "He didn't buy any horse in this town, or I'd have heard of it. But he might have picked one up anywhere. There's an hombre over north of Paradise who runs a few horses. Folks say he does a right smart business with strangers who need horses in a hurry."
"We'll look him up," Hopalong said, rising.
"Better go it with a loose gun," the liveryman replied dryly. "He's reported unfriendly."
An hour later, assured that Joe Gamble was resting easily and that Monaghan was out of danger, the three riders saddled up and started back for the 3TL They had gone no more than a mile when Sue Gibson overtook them. She flushed as she looked at Hopalong.
"I guess I was wrong about Jack Bolt," she said. "I've heard about those messages."
Cassidy smiled. "Forget it. I've been wrong a few times myself."
Red Connors snorted, and Mesquite's eyes twinkled. "Although," Cassidy continued, "not so wrong as some others I could name!"
"You were wrong when you didn't shoot down that no-account Griffin," Connors said flatly. "I knowed that for certain!"
Hopalong Cassidy rode into the 3TL ranch yard beside Sue Gibson, but as he swung down from the saddle Gibson himself limped from the house, smiling widely. Beside him was the man who had brought Topper back to Hopalong. Sighting him, the horse neighed shrilly, and Hoppy turned toward the corral. The horse ran eagerly to the gate and thrust his head over the bars.
"How are you, boy?" Hoppy ran his fingers under the white gelding's mane and scratched the horse's neck. "Good to be back, isn't it? How's the leg?"
Tapping the horse's foot gently, he lifted it and examined the leg. It looked as good as ever.
"We've got a trip to make, Topper. Let's go?" The horse jerked his head with pleasure at being back with Hopalong. Hopalong turned to Red as he walked up. "We'll stay here tonight, then start in the morning. We'll ride to Agate and talk to Sourdough. From there we'll probably have to check the trails north for tracks, but unless I miss my guess, this is one trail that will be hard to follow. He'll have no idea of letting anybody trace him."
Late the next day Sourdough told them what he could about the country. Then he added, "I ain't seen none of that crowd around town, but Hanson, who has him a little place down on the crick, lost a horse the other night. Lost a horse, a shoulder of beef, and some beans. Stole off him. Also about two dozen 56 Spencer shells."
"That might have been Slim," Red said. "I recall he had him a Spencer carbine."
The trail north led up the bottom of a wide canyon, its sides scattered with stubby timber and some undergrowth. There was no evidence of travel in a long time. They saw occasional deer, rabbits, and once a huge timber wolf who trotted unhurriedly off into the scrub growth on the mountainside.
"We'll just have to work north, check the streams and water holes, and watch all the trails," Hopalong told them. "It might be that Slim and the Breed know something, but I'm gambling they don't. I doubt if even Grat knew about this hangout unless Bolt took him there."
"If there is a hideout!" Connors said. He scanned the mountainside and looked on ahead to where the valley narrowed. "What do you say we strike up the hill? We can see farther."
"Good idea!" Hoppy turned his horse around a boulder and started him up through the underbrush, mostly manzanita or tobacco bush. A grove of quaking aspen made a white-and-green arrow pointing up a slight hollow in the mountain. Curving around it, they rode on, keeping their eyes alert for movement or tracks.
The mountain sloped back and up, and they rode on, climbing steadily. Now the scattered growth thickened into clumps of alder and white-barked pine. Pausing under the shade of a red fir and its neighboring hemlock, Hopalong scanned the country. Suddenly he stood in his stirrups. "Fire," he said suddenly. "Out yonder."
Without a word they moved out, and when they had gone no more than half a mile Red Connors lifted his hand. "Here's a trail!" he called. "Two riders!"Hopalong rode over. Neither track looked familiar now, but he would know them if he saw them again. Heading for the smoke once more, the three moved out. The tracks seemed to be going the same way.
"Must be an old camp," Mesquite suggested. "These tracks were made last night."
"Not by Bolt, I'll gamble!" Connors said flatly. "He'll play it smart from here on in!"
Chapter 23
Deadly Half-breed.
Advancing with extreme care, the three spread out, working their way through the timber toward the thin blue line of smoke. Ahead, it climbed vaguely through the trees and lost itself against the sky. Finally they drew up. The smoke came from a hollow in the woods that was not far away among some boulders. Red circled, his rifle in his hands.
Hopalong advanced, following the tracks, then straightened in his stirrups to look over the bush toward the circle of the camp and the dying fire, but there was no sign of anyone around. Cautiously he closed in, his Winchester ready.
Two men had camped here--two men who could have been gone less than an hour. They had prepared and eaten a meal, but not much of one. Hopalong was standing by the charred remains of the fire when Red and Mesquite closed in.
"Gone," he said. "Maybe an hour ago, probably less. And they haven't much grub. They took the grounds out of the coffeepot."
Red prowled restlessly. "Two of them," he agreed. "It looks like the Breed and Slim."
"They saddled up in a hurry," Mesquite added, "and lit out like the devil was after 'em."
Cassidy nodded. "They must have spotted us back down the trail. All right." He gathered up his reins. "Let's ge
t on after them."
They moved out swiftly, the trail plain to see. It went straight away into the scrub pine, then mounted a slope through saddle-high manzanita and wandered among some boulders. Twice they lost the trail, but each time Hopalong picked it up. Suddenly, far ahead, they sighted a rider.
"Take it easy," Hopalong said. "I think that hombre meant to be seen. Maybe the other one is lying along the trail somewhere."
They rode on. The day warmed and a slight breeze stirred the grass. Over the distant mountains thunderheads began to build their castles in the sky. The heat increased, the breeze died out, and the afternoon became sultry. They pushed on. Suddenly a rifle shot sounded and a bullet snarled past Hopa-long's head. Red fired as if on signal and then dusted the clump of brush again. A horse's hoofs rattled on stone and were gone. The three pushed on, taking their time, aware that precipitate action could mean death.
The thunderheads built higher and turned darker, flattening out on the underside. Off in the far canyons thunder grumbled and muttered without humor. A gust of wind came and went. Another rifle shot sounded, but the marksman was too far away and they saw his bullet strike far ahead of them.
"Hot!" Connors mopped his face and neck, removing his hat to wipe off the band. "Sure is hot and sultry."
"It'll storm," Jenkins agreed.
"Wish I knew this country," Hopalong complained. "That storm is going to wipe out all the tracks."
"The answer to that is easy," Mesquite suggested. "Let's run 'em!"
"Not yet." Hopalong indicated their trail, the tracks wider-spaced now. "Let them do the running. They'll kill their horses if they don't stop soon."
Relentlessly the three riders pushed on. Sweat darkened the flanks and shoulders of their horses and the backs of their shirts. Time and again they wiped the hands that held their rifles. An hour passed, and then another. The mountain they were crossing spilled over into a deep green valley. A fresh bear track crossed the trail, and off to the left they saw a deer. Twice Hopalong pointed out tracks where horses had stumbled. The hunt was drawing to a close now. Once a bullet smashed through the branches over their heads, a feeling, tentative shot that lost itself in the forest.
Hesitating, to let the horses catch their breath, Hopalong voiced the thought that was troubling all of them. "The worst of it is, this isn't getting us any closer to Jack Bolt. He's the one we really want."
"It may be," Red said sullenly. "I was up this way the first week I was in this country. There's a valley north of here that runs east and west. We might be able to cut across country and then hunt for smoke. That's our best chance."
"There won't be any smoke," Mesquite objected. "Not if Bolt is smart." They were silent, agreeing. Jack Bolt would be found by no such obvious method.
The mountains grew taller, the canyons deeper and narrower. The growth along their flanks thickened, and the heat in the canyon bottoms was close and intense. Topper walked on
tirelessly, seemingly untouched by the heat. Suddenly the narrow canyon up which they were riding ended against a dry waterfall, but over the rise on their right they could see an opening in the mountains. Cautiously they mounted the ridge. Before them was a low saddle, a gap in the hills that showed a beautiful green valley that might be three or four miles long and almost a half-mile wide.
Halfway down the valley was a log cabin and some crude pole corrals, and at the corral two men were dismounting. Hop-along leveled his glasses.
"That's it!" he said grimly. "But we'd better hurry. There's fresh horses in that corral!"
What happened then, they all saw. Riding down the gap, they plunged into the valley, pushing their horses. Topper was leading by at least a length, and they were still higher than the cabin and corrals. They saw a man come from the woods some distance back of the house. He was carrying an axe, and he was beyond the house, with it between himself and the outlaws. Suddenly a shot rang out. The man hesitated, then broke into a run for the house.
The three riders had covered a good mile and were closing down on the ranch, well scattered, when that shot sounded. At almost the same instant there was a piercing scream from a horse and a choked cry from a man. All were close enough to see a huge red stallion wheel on the man in the corral and rush for him. The outlaw turned, grabbed wildly for the top bar of the corral, and threw his leg up. The leg never got there, for the enraged stallion seized the man in his teeth and jerked back.
The outlaw fell--it was the Breed--then lunged to his feet. Before any of them could act, it was all over. The stallion
rushed him, reared, and struck out. A flying hoof caught the Breed and struck him down, and instantly the horse went into a pitching, striking fury. The animal was fiendish, striking again and again at the silent, sprawled-out figure.
White of face, Hopalong turned away from the corral. Mesquite, tough as he was, was drawing back, looking sick. Then a man rushed from the house, belting on his guns. He slowed when he saw the three.
Sprawled in the open, outside the corral, was Slim. He had been shot through the body, but he was still alive.
"Only one good horse," he muttered. "When the Breed saw that, he just grabbed iron. I never had a chance."
The rancher was puzzled. "What's goin' on?" he said, his brows furrowed. "Why were they fighting over my horse?"
Hopalong motioned to the outlaws' sagging mounts. "Ran their own almost to death," he said quietly. "We were right behind 'em. A couple of rustlers. I guess the Breed aimed to have that horse for himself."
"He got him," Red said, "and though I hate to see any horse kill a man, that one had it comin'."
The rancher looked relieved. "I was afraid he was a friend of you boys," he said. "I was afraid there would be trouble. That stallion's a killer, all right. But he's the best stud around here. He don't bother me none," he added, "because I feed him and I always move slow around him. But he's afraid of a rope. Scared to death of one."
Hopalong was still kneeling by Slim. He had seen at once there was nothing that could be done. The man was dying. Slim's eyes lifted to Hopalong's.
"Gave you a run for your money," he said. "Wish I could have died in better company than that Breed. He wasn't . . .
he wasn't fit for no man. The Injuns wouldn't have him around; neither would the Mexicans. He was mean--awful . . . mean."
Slim lay quiet, breathing raggedly for several minutes, then started to speak. His lips formed the words, then failed; he was no longer living.
The rancher stared down at him, then looked up, his eyes going from one to the other of the three men. "Don't believe I know you," he said carefully. "Who might you be?"
Hopalong turned to him. "Hopalong Cassidy," he said, "and this is Red Connors, and Mesquite Jenkins. Those men were rustlers robbing the ranches around Tascotal."
The man grinned at Hopalong. "Heard of you," he admitted.
All through the remainder of the afternoon they rode on, keeping to the east and following a series of broken valleys and cuts that gave them a route through the north-and-south-run-ning ranges of mountains. Toward the evening it grew cool, and darkness came suddenly. They made camp in a grove of fir clustered in a fold among the hills. At daylight they were again riding.
Hopalong pointed suddenly. "Something lying over there. Let's have a look."
Loping their horses through the grass, they drew up on the hillside where the grass thinned down among the rocks. What Hopalong had seen was a mule deer. It had been dead for some time.
Red swung down and turned the animal over. "Shot," he said. "Died sometime yesterday or the day before."
All knew who might have fired the shot, and knew there was every chance that Jack Bolt was in the vicinity. The rancher had known nothing of Bolt, nor of any cabin recently built. He had, several days past, while hunting far to the east, heard a rifle shot. He had believed it to be somebody riding through the country, or a prospector.
Since leaving him the three had cut old trails, but nothing that indicated any
recent signs of travel. The dead deer was the first indication of life in the area that was anything but animal. Red looked speculatively at the deer. "What d'yuh think, Hoppy? Would he come far?"
"No more than a couple of miles with that wound."
"Then the best place to look," Mesquite suggested, "would be over that ridge?"
Hopalong nodded, studying it with no liking. "That's it," he agreed. He looked around at them. "And be careful. Bolt will probably shoot on sight. We'll scatter out to cross that ridge and look for trail sign." He indicated a towering, lightning-blasted pine on the crest of the ridge. "We'll meet at sundown right below that pine. If shooting starts, we all know what to do."
Chapter 24
Outlaw at Bay.
When he was alone Hopalong got down and tightened his cinch. He had elected to follow the path of the deer. The hunter who had shot it might be miles from home, but he knew that there were many deer in this country and very few hunters, so it was unlikely that any hunter would have to go far to kill a deer, nor would he be likely to kill one far from home and so have to pack it back. In most of these mountain cabins a man could step out almost any morning and kill his deer within a matter of minutes.
"If I had to guess," he murmured, "I'd say within three miles of here. And it would be a good guess."
Water--shelter--fuel.
The first thing when he was over the rise would be to hunt a watercourse or possible spring.
It would be in good timber, and in a locality not easily seen from a distance.
There would be signs of woodcutting, without a doubt. Though probably there would be little cut within the immediate vicinity. The cabin would be in deep woods or in some fold of the hills. He mounted, spoke softly to Topper, and started up
the slope. The trail of the deer was dim, but visible. It led upward at an angle toward the ridge.
The actual crest was heavily forested with fir, and between the rocks were splashes of squaw mat, but only a few of the brilliant blue flowers remained. Here and there was an immense sugar pine, giving way as he climbed higher to mountain hemlock and red fir. The deer had fallen and struggled erect twice on that slope, for he had been weakening fast here, and all sense of locality must have long since been gone. At both places the gravel and squaw mat were stained dark by lost blood.
the Riders Of High Rock (1993) Page 17
